i met my younger self at blank street

and happy valentine's to all who celebrate <3

I met my younger self for some (much-needed) caffeine.

She arrived 15 minutes early and sat on her phone, gnawing at the inside of her cheeks. I was 15 minutes late, chewing on the skin of my lips while tending to the build-up of emails on my phone.

She pounced into my arms, squeezing my hands tight as she asked how I was doing genuinely. I squeezed it back, brushing over her knuckles and not wanting to let go.

She asked for a peppermint or green tea. I said, “Lovey, this is Blank Street”, and ordered us both matcha’s — some things change, but only slightly.

She posted a picture of it on her story with a <3. I did the same, but on close friends — some things never change.

She was disappointed that we didn’t get all A*’s at A-Level and asked if we at least got a first class in our degrees. I showed her our first-class honours in fashion journalism from one of the top design schools in the world — one of the places she now works.

“So, we’re creative?” she asked eagerly. And I laughed and shook my head, wishing she knew that she always had been.

She asked if we were finally a respected fashion journalist in the industry, and I giggled into my matcha while telling her, “No one really is my sweet. You are until you aren’t…and I think the goal has changed slightly.” I show her the projects we’ve worked on and the magazines we’ve been printed in. “Woah,” she says. “Woah,” I echo, nodding my head.

She wondered where our favourite place we’d travelled to had been. After listing all the places we’d travelled to in the last three years, I told her, “The best had to be New York.” She squealed with excitement, alarming all the customers before apologising…several times.

She asked endless questions about what we were writing. ‘Not the magazine stuff, but the real stuff’. The book. I told her the story is there; it’s just not the right time — some flowers take a little while longer to bloom. “Well, hurry up then,” she said, barely encouragingly. There’s that tough love I was expecting.

She asked if we still loved Justin Bieber. She tapped the table while asking for tour videos and pictures. I broke the news that we were due to see him perform on Valentine’s Day years later, but he cancelled. Her lip puckered (grow up, girl). But I did reassure her that he still follows us on Twitter, and she’s seen him in real life. “Is he married to Hailey?” she asked. “They had a baby boy last year,” I said. She squealed again, and this time, I apologised.

She beamed specifically at the ring on my left finger (ignoring the stacks of rings on the rest). “We’re getting married?” she exclaimed. “No,” I said to her. “Safa bought us this from the TKMaxx in Wood Green two weeks ago.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “Mood,” she said.

“So, no husband? EVER?!” she moaned seconds later. I laughed at how impatient and dramatic she was and told her to loosen her grip on love — that the boys will get worse before the men get better. She believes it’s on its way, but only now. She shields her from how long she had to trudge through deep waters to reach that place of comfort and knowing. “Okay, but make sure it’s a Tiffany ring. Radiant cut. Yellow. And if not..” she said, staring at me with daggers in her eyes. “At least make sure the diamond’s from Zimbabwe,” we say in sync. Jeez Louise.

“So we do believe we’ll get married?” she says. My eyes go out of focus as I disassociate but snap back in to remind her that God’s timing is perfect, and though we didn’t believe we would for a while, I’m sure it’s part of our story.

She asked what Rhode was as I topped up my lips. I told her to put down the Baby Lips and chucked it into the bin when she wasn’t looking, turning back to our table with a grimace.

She asked if she ever rekindled things with the best friend she went to concerts with is still around, and I smiled as I said, “Yes, but in a different way. We’re both grown up… plus, she’s a wonderful mummy now.” (“He’s a boy, isn’t he?” she whispered with a grin).

She wanted to know how much longer she’d feel like a burden to the people she loved. My eyes filled with tears as I let her know that while we’re still weeding some of them out, she’s sure she’s met her family for life — she can expect one of her best friends to get married, and she’ll be the chief bridesmaid. Oh, and Safa’s still around. “Pops knows them all by name now,” I say. She laughed, rolling her eyes.

“Wait, you still call dad ‘Pops’?” she asked with brighter eyes. I tilt my head with a ‘Duh’ expression. “Mood,” she responds.

She waited a while, grabbed my arms and studied them intently before quickly pulling her hand away. I grabbed her hand back and squeezed it tightly. Then, pinched her cheeks like Auntie Tee would. She smiled while looking away, and I watched as she quickly wiped a tear away.

“You’d make a good mother,” she said, asking if we still wanted to be one. I took (back) hold of her hand and encouraged her not to lose her loving, maternal spirit in the waiting.

Speaking of Mum’s, “Mum’s a teacher, isn’t she,” she said with an eye roll. I knew it wasn’t a question, so I just winked at her and responded to her sarcasm with: “How did you know.”

She went to pick up her phone and immediately put it down, repeating the same motif twice more before tapping back into our conversation. “Oh! Please tell me you drive,” she groans. My hands palm my face as I watch her eyes roll, and her head fall back. “Mood,” I respond, rolling my eyes myself.

I study her mascara’d eyes, a touch of inner-corner highlight, and the slight shimmer to her cheeks, a mix of more highlighter and the reflection of her dulled gold hoop earrings. “What? Is there something on my face?” she asked anxiously. Smiling, I say: “Just beauty.” She rolled her eyes (again) and flipped me off.

“Do you still believe in God? Are you still a Christian? Is church as scary as it was?” she asks in quick succession, both fearful and resentful. I sigh. A big sigh. I tell her that our faith is stronger than ever, but so are our boundaries — and God honours and extends grace for both. She gave me a small smile.

Her leg stopped shaking nervously, and she got up to give me a tight squeeze goodbye. She headed to the door, but not without asking if Mum and Dad were friends again. I stifled laughter and said, “Right now, yes. The best of friends, actually.” Her shoulders settled.

I watched after her as she met her little brother outside, meeting him with an eye roll and stomping off as he chased after her. I dipped my head and chuckled, closing my eyes to breathe a sigh of relief. Well done, girl. Well done.

‘How are you brother? Uni all good?’ I texted my brother at that moment. He tapped back with a thumbs up. Minutes later, a meme followed.

Oh, how we’ve grown.

How blessed am I?